


Gone, Too Far

by wesleysgirl



Series: On Life and Living [3]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-27
Updated: 2012-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-06 02:40:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/413827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleysgirl/pseuds/wesleysgirl





	Gone, Too Far

  


  


 

The night before, John's sleeping, two a.m., deep and still, when Rodney's foot shoves at him. "John."

"Mmm?"

"John. Wake up."

"Daddy?" Kayla, her voice little and hollow, scared, which jolts John from mostly-asleep to painfully awake in the space of an instant.

"Kayla? What is it?" John's heart is racing in his chest. "Bad dream?"

She used to have them a lot, the first nine months or so after Elizabeth died, but it's been a long time since the last one and John has, happily, forgotten what it's like to be woken up in the middle of the night.

"Can I sleep with you?" Kayla asks. It's answer enough.

"Sure. Come on." John moves over to the middle of the bed, next to Rodney, and Kayla crawls in between the sheets. He reaches out a hand, clumsy with sleep and adrenaline, and pats her hair. "It's okay."

He's almost asleep again when she whispers. "There was a closet," she says.

"Hm?" John does his best to join the conversation. "In your room?"

"In my dream." Kayla pauses. "It was dark, and the door was locked."

"It was just a dream," John tells her. "Try thinking about something happy."

In the morning, there's a report on the news while they're eating breakfast, but Rodney's in a shitty mood -- it's hard to tell if the reason is genuine or manufactured, because, well, he's _Rodney_ \-- and John's distracted by the fact that Kayla needs lunch money and he's totally out.

"Do you have any money?" John asks him.

"What?" Rodney looks annoyed as he slurps down his second cup of coffee. "I don't know." John gives him a look and he sighs. "Okay, okay, hang on." He gets out his wallet and pulls out a five. "Here." Instead of handing the money to John, he gives it to Kayla, which means he's been paying more attention to what's going on than John would have guessed.

_...second girl in three weeks to be targeted..._ the radio says, and John frowns and shuts it off. "We should stop listening to the news," he says.

"Much better not to be informed," Rodney says, rolling his eyes as he comes over to kiss John goodbye. "See you tonight."

"Yeah," John says. "Oh, hey, take some of those oatmeal bar things Mrs. Yager brought over." Their neighbor, who is a widow and retired, is constantly bringing over stuff for them -- cookies, bread, sometimes even a pie -- and in return John shovels out her walkway when it snows.

"Tomorrow," Rodney promises. "I'm already late." He pats Kayla's head on his way out -- they hug sometimes, but Kayla's always the one who initiates it -- and John hears Rodney's car door shut a minute later. He can't be bothered to park in the garage, which is ridiculous considering he's the one who insisted they build it in the first place.

John puts Kayla on the bus and heads to work. The radio in the car is talking about the same thing the one at home was, but he doesn't pay attention, more focused on getting to work than anything else.

He exchanges pleasantries with Peter, spends the first fifteen minutes reminding himself what he did _last_ time he was at work and the next forty-five finishing up some paperwork that would have only taken half an hour if he'd done it at the end of his last shift. The day passes quickly, like it usually does, and Peter actually has to tell him that it's time for him to go or he might have stayed too long. He pulls into the driveway about three minutes before Kayla's bus is due -- Rodney's car is in the driveway, which is weird, but John doesn't have time to go in and find out what's up. He jogs to the bus stop and arrives just as the bus is coming up the street. It shivers to a halt with a soft shriek of brakes and the doors open. John waits, but Kayla doesn't get off.

The bus driver half turns in the seat and looks back, then gestures at John to step onto the bus. His heart is beating a little too quickly, but he's still telling himself that Kayla's there, she's just talking with one of her friends, doesn't realize they're at her stop.

But the bus is half empty and Kayla's not there.

John walks all the way to the back of the bus, looking in each seat, then turns and goes to the front again. The kids are all quiet, weirded out by the fact that there's a grown-up on the bus, in _their_ space. "She's not here," John says.

The bus driver doesn't shrug or act like it's unimportant, lucky for him, because John is barely holding on to his calm just then. "Maybe she got on the wrong bus," he says, reaching for the CB radio. "It happens. Hang on." He brings the handset to his mouth and talks into it. John's thumb rubs back and forth over the seam of his slacks as they wait for a response, but when it comes, it's not the news John hoped for, which pretty much would have had to be, _We've got her here and we're beaming her onto the bus with our fantastic Star Trek technology right now._ "Call the school," the driver tells him. "They'll be able to find out where she is. Don't worry, she's probably on a different bus."

The temptation to argue, to insist that the driver do something more, is strong, but John is painfully aware of the other parents down the line, waiting for their kids, plus it's obvious that there really _isn't_ anything else this guy can do, so he gets off the bus and heads for home. He doesn't run, because running would mean something is wrong and he's not -- quite -- willing to admit that. He stomps up onto the porch, shoves the door open, and goes for the phone. The school's number is scribbled on the piece of paper taped to the wall. As he dials, he shouts, "Rodney!" The phone at the other end rings once, twice. "Rodney!"

"Thorton Grammar School," a cheerful if slightly harried voice says on the other end of the line.

"My daughter didn't get off the bus," John says, his own voice shaking. Rodney starts coming down the stairs, stops when he hears what John said, then hurries down the rest of the way.

"Hold on, I'm going to put you right through to the Principal. Don't worry." The secretary puts him on hold, soft soothing music playing in the background. It makes John want to throw the phone against the wall. His gaze meets Rodney's.

"What do you mean she didn't get off the bus?" Rodney whispers loudly. "Are you sure she --"

John waves a hand at Rodney to quiet him as the music cuts off. "This is Principal Sawyer," the man says.

"This is John Sheppard. My daughter Kayla wasn't on the bus when I went to meet it." John's heart is hammering in his chest; Rodney moves closer, his solid form reassuring.

"Okay. Don't worry. I'm sure she's on another bus -- it happens sometimes. Give me three minutes and I'll call you right back. Stay by the phone."

"Okay," John says numbly, and hangs up. "He's calling back." Rodney's hands are on him, touching him, and for just a second or two John imagines the rest of his life without Kayla, and the world starts to fall away underneath him.

Rodney's holding onto him. "Hey," Rodney says, his voice rough and comforting. John clings to him, pressing his face to Rodney's shoulder. "Remember when she went missing at the Museum of Science? Remember that?" John mumbles something affirmative. "We're going to find her this time, too. I promise."

"You can't promise that," John says.

"Of course I can. They don't call me a genuis for nothing." Rodney sounds a little bit smug, and that's so reassuring that John wants to kiss him. He doesn't, though. They just stand there like that, with John's heart beating in a funny, thudding pattern that actually _hurts_ , and then the phone rings and John lunges for it, his hands strangely steady now.

"Hello?" he says.

"It's Principal Sawyer. We have a bus driver who's sure there was a girl on his bus he didn't recognize, but she got off with another girl. We're tracking them down now, but I wanted to let you know in the meantime. Don't worry; we'll find her."

John hangs up the phone again. "They keep saying not to worry."

"They're idiots," Rodney says bluntly. "But it's good advice."

Adrenaline is surging through John. "It's stupid advice," he says, more harshly than he'd realized he would. "Have you _listened_ to the news today? About some pedophile who's targeting little girls?" He's hyperventilating. Losing it.

"This morning you said we should stop listening to the news," Rodney points out, so fucking _reasonable_ that John wants to hit him. Irrational, he knows, going from being grateful that Rodney's there to wishing he wasn't, but all he can think about is that _guy_ , that nameless, faceless guy, and Kayla's dream about being locked in a closet, and what if she'd been... somehow... _seeing_ what was going to happen? "John."

"Get away from me," John says, and he feels a savage pleasure at the look of shock of Rodney's face. "If you can't be fucking _human_ enough to give a shit what happens to her, then just get the fuck away from me."

Rodney stands there looking at him, stunned. John walks past him out the front door and onto the porch, and stands there with his hands clenched into fists. The sun is shining brightly, and the sky is much too perfect a blue for the kind of day it's become. John walks to the mailbox and checks it automatically; when he turns around and looks at the house, he realizes for the first time that the paint job on the addition doesn't quite match the rest of the house. It's funny, the little things you notice when the world is ending. For a moment, he's fiercely glad that Elizabeth is dead, because he can picture so clearly how her eyes would have been filled with tears she'd have stubbornly refused to shed, her lower lip trembling, her fingers cold as they curled around his.

She'd have insisted, though, that everything was going to be fine.

The phone rings in the house, the sound of it tinny and muffled, and John takes the four steps two at a time and yanks the door open. Rodney's holding the phone, then offering it to John. "They found her," Rodney says, and he sounds so relieved that John's knees go weak.

He presses the phone to his ear hard enough that it hurts; the man on the other end of the line is at the end of a sentence. "Sorry," John says. "What? Could you say that again?"

"Which part?" Sawyer says.

"You know where she is?" John asks. His mouth is dry.

"She's at a classmate's house," Sawyer tells him. "She went home with a friend. I've told the mother to keep her there so there wouldn't be any further confusion about her whereabouts -- I assumed you'd want to go get her."

"Yeah, that's a safe bet," John says. His hands are shaking again as he picks up the paper and pen that have appeared on the table in front of him. "Where is she?"

The principal rattles off an address; John recognizes the street name because a chiropractor he used a couple of times when he fucked up his shoulder has his office over there. It's on the other side of town. Sawyer gives him the phone number, too.

"Okay, thanks. Thanks for all your help." John hangs up the phone and doesn't look at Rodney; he's torn for a few seconds between leaving immediately and calling so he can hear for himself that Kayla's okay. He decides laying eyes on her is more important and heads for the door, not really caring if Rodney comes or not.

Deep down he knows he owes Rodney a huge apology, but he can't think about that right now. He needs to be able to put his arms around his daughter.

Rodney follows him; gets into the passenger seat without a word. His hands are on his knees, unmoving, and every time John glances at him, he's looking out the window. Staring, really. A couple of times John tries to say something, but he never manages to get even a single word out.

Kayla is waiting with a woman on the front porch of the house when they pull up. Even from the car, John can see how white her face is -- there are tear streaks on her cheeks, and she's apologizing before John's feet hit the pavement, obviously understanding what a serious mistake she's made.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," she says, as he runs up the steps and puts his arms around her. "I tried to call, but your cell phone never picked up -- "

"It's okay." John, who apparently takes his anger and frustration out on Rodney these days, strokes her hair reassuringly. "It's okay. You're safe; that's all that matters." She pulls back to look at him. "Just promise you'll never, ever do this again."

"I promise," Kayla says. She looks over his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Rodney. I didn't mean to scare you."

John turns to look, and she's right -- Rodney _does_ look scared, and sad, and that makes John's heart clench in his chest, the flood of guilt and sorrow rushing through him, hot and dizzying.

"I know," Rodney says. "It's okay." Which is totally not a Rodney kind of thing to say under the circumstances, and Kayla looks startled because she knows it just as well as John does. "Are we going?"

That's a little more like him. There are more apologies from the woman, and John nods and waves them away, ushering Kayla off the porch and into the car. On the drive home she explains what happened, how her friend Anna had asked her to come over to play the day before, but she forgot to ask if it was okay, and then she thought when she got to Anna's house she could just call John's cell phone and let him know, only it turned out his cell phone was dead, totally out of batteries. John tells her a dozen times that she can never do this to him again, and she promises that she won't, never ever ever.

At the house, Rodney shrugs away from John when he tries to apologize -- which hurts worse than John would have imagined -- and goes upstairs without a word. John can hear the sharp click of the office door as Rodney closes it. Kayla puts down her backpack and asks, "Is Rodney mad at me?"

"No," John says. "He's... he's just behind at work. You know how he gets when he's working."

It's a convincing lie, because Kayla _does_ know. But when Rodney doesn't come down for dinner, she gets more worried, and the way John's been pausing every few seconds to listen for the sound of Rodney's footsteps on the stairs isn't helping.

"Are you sure he's not mad at me?" she asks when they're almost done eating.

"I'm sure," John says.

"Then why is he staying in his office?" Kayla's eyes search John's, and he knows she's not going to be so easily reassured this time.

"He's mad at _me_ ," he admits.

Kayla frowns. "Why?"

"I was kind of freaked out when I didn't know where you were," John says slowly, trying to figure out how to explain without telling her too much. Parenting is like walking a tight-rope sometimes. "He was... being Rodney, and I kind of yelled at him."

"You yelled at Rodney?" Kayla looks horrified. "Daddy. That was mean."

She never says that Rodney's being mean, even when he shouts and waves his arms around and calls people names. "I know," John says. "It was. But don't worry; I'll talk to him, okay?"

"And apologize," Kayla says severely.

"I will. A lot."

There's no sound from Rodney's office all evening, and it's not until John goes into Kayla's room to tuck her in that he hears the door open and Rodney going downstairs. He must be starving, John realizes, which makes it clear how upset he must be. When John goes into the kitchen, Rodney is standing with his back to the doorway, and doesn't turn around.

"Look," John says, awkward. He's so bad at stuff like this. "I'm really sorry. About before. I was out of line."

Rodney doesn't say anything, but his right hand grips onto the edge of the counter.

" _Way_ out of line," John adds. "And I'm really, really sorry." He takes a step closer, but Rodney still doesn't say anything. His shoulders, John notes, are moving up and down a little bit, jerkily, and there's a pang in John's chest as the thought strikes him that Rodney is crying. "Rodney? Hey, come on." With gentle hands -- and Rodney's tense, too tense, but John doesn't realize that then, not until later -- he turns Rodney around.

Rodney's not crying. His face is red, his eyes wide and the skin around his lips swollen and a weird purplish-blue. "Epi," he wheezes, and John sees the pan of oatmeal bars, foil peeled back, a square with a bite taken out of it dropped onto the counter.

For three seconds, John's heart just stops. In those moments, all he can do is stare at Rodney's face while his brain races over what he needs to do -- and then, thank God, he's moving, doing it.

The epi-pens are in a mug on top of the fridge. It's a mug that has a chip out of the handle from when John dropped it taking it out of the dishwasher, a mug that falls to the floor when John snatches up the epi-pens. He shoves Rodney's hands, which are fumbling with the front of his slacks, out of the way, undoes them himself, and pushes them down to bare Rodney's thigh.

"It's okay, buddy, I've got it," he says, muttering the directions to himself under his breath. His hands are steady now. "Gray cap off. Press the black tip... push steadily harder." He sees Rodney's thigh dimple with the force of it, then feels the snap as the spring triggers the needle. Rodney flinches and gasps as the adrenaline rushes through him, and John remembers to toss the pen into the sink as he rubs at the spot where the needle went in. "Easy."

"Sit," Rodney gasps, and does, sliding down along the front of the cabinet before John can grab a chair for him.

John reaches for a dishcloth and holds it against the blood welling up on Rodney's thigh. "Okay. You okay?"

The swelling around Rodney's lips is fading, but he looks shockingly white underneath the places where he's flushed bright red. "Gonna... kill her," he says, probably meaning Mrs. Yager. "9... 11."

"Right," John says, and rushes to grab the phone. He's back beside Rodney, the floor hard against his knees, before the other end of the line even connects. "I need an ambulance," he says, eyes locked with Rodney's. The woman asks him a few questions that he answers automatically, barely thinking because he can hear Kayla coming downstairs and how the _fuck_ is he supposed to juggle this? He sets the phone on the floor without hanging up.

"Kayla, go get dressed," he says when she comes into the kitchen. "We need to take Rodney to the hospital."

"What happened?" Kayla asks, sounding scared.

"He ate something with citrus in it," John tells her. "Do you remember -- "

"I remember," Kayla says. "Did you use the epi-pen? Did you call the ambulance?"

"Yeah. They'll be here any minute."

Kayla runs back up the stairs, and John holds Rodney's hand. "Twenty minutes," Rodney says. "Less, now." His heart is thumping so ferociously that John can feel his pulse fluttering under his fingertips.

"I know," John says. "There's another one here," meaning the second epi-pen, "and there are two upstairs, and they'll have stuff in the ambulance. It's okay."

Rodney lets his head thump back against the cabinet. "Easy... for you to say."

"No," John says. "Actually, no. It's not. Not at all. Rodney..."

"Later," Rodney says, and the way he's clutching John's hand, tight enough that it hurts, makes John choke back the words.

The ambulance arrives a minute later -- the fire station is less than two miles away -- and it's totally surreal, two men bustling into their little kitchen with equipment and stethoscopes. Kayla stands against the wall, her hair loose and tangled, and doesn't start to cry until she and John are in the car following the ambulance, with John keenly aware that he has to concentrate, be a good driver. If it weren't for Kayla he could have gone in the ambulance with Rodney, maybe, but he can't think about that. He needs to focus.

"It's okay," John tells her. "He's going to be fine."

"How do you know?" Kayla sniffles.

"Because this isn't a serious thing," John says.

Kayla opens the glove compartment and takes out some kleenex. "But you said it was a life-threatening allergy."

Her memory, John thinks, is much too good. "It can be," he fudges. "But it's not like he ate a whole lemon or whatever."

"What _did_ he eat?" Kayla asks.

"A bite of one of those oatmeal bars Mrs. Yager made," John says. "It must have had, I don't know, orange rind in it or something. It's not important. We'll figure it out later."

At the hospital, John and Kayla have to wait outside the room while the doctors work on Rodney, getting him set up with some kind of IV and one of those oxygen things -- you'd think John would know what they're called, but he doesn't -- under his nose, and then they move him upstairs to an actual room because they want to keep him overnight in case there's some kind of secondary reaction or something.

Finally things get a little less crazy. Kayla sits in a chair next to the bed for a while, and then John sits with Kayla in his lap until she falls asleep. Rodney's kind of out of it when Jeannie arrives, worried, eyes a little bit wild.

"Hey," John says, and Jeannie goes around to the other side of the bed and touches Rodney's shoulder.

"Hi," she says.

Rodney opens his eyes, but closes them again almost immediately.

"He's had a rough time," John says.

"Did he stop breathing?" Jeannie asks.

John shakes his head. "No."

"Then it wasn't too bad," Jeannie says, relaxing. "Still. Scary."

"Yeah. Very." John shifts Kayla a little bit, and she murmurs sleepily. "You've been through it, I take it?"

"Three times," Jeannie says. "It's a good thing he's pretty paranoid, or it probably would have been more." She looks down at Rodney fondly. "Twice, he stopped breathing. The second time was when we were home alone. I was nine."

"Jesus," John says.

"Well, this probably won't be the last time," she tells him, raising her eyes to meet his.

John nods and swallows, the combined events of the day almost overwhelming him. "He's worth it," he says. His eyes fill with tears suddenly, and Jeannie comes over and hugs him awkwardly, one hand on John's shoulder and her hair falling against his cheek.

"So are you," Jeannie says softly. "He's lucky to have you."

Kayla stirs again, this time saying something that might be, "Mommy?"

"Shh, sweetheart," Jeannie says, tucking Kayla's hair back. "Do you want me to take her? We could go back to your place so she could get a good night's sleep."

"No, but thanks." John doesn't think he can go into everything that happened. "It's probably selfish of me, but I need her here."

Jeannie looks determined. "Then I'm going to go find one of those chairs that unfolds into a bed."

She's back in ten minutes with an orderly and a padded chair on wheels. The guy sets up the bed over against the wall on the other side of the room, which is pretty much the only place it'll fit, and nods at John before glancing nervously at Jeannie.

"Are you terrorizing the hospital staff?" Rodney asks, his voice rough and weary.

"No," Jeannie retorts, ignoring the orderly and moving back over to the bed. "That's your job, remember?"

Rodney lifts a hand, lets it fall back onto the sheets. "You can take over for me. Just for tonight."

"Gee, thanks." Jeannie looks on the verge of weeping suddenly, and bends over Rodney to hug him. John can only see Rodney's eyebrow and forehead from where he's sitting, but he can tell Rodney is surprised, then touched. When Jeannie pulls back, wiping at her eyes almost angrily, she says, "I thought we'd agreed after last time that you weren't going to do this anymore."

" _I_ didn't do anything," Rodney says. "Apparently our neighbor is trying to kill me."

"She's eighty-six years old," John protests, shifting Kayla upward and standing so he can carry her over to the bed the orderly set up. "She was being nice."

"Being nice is bringing over food that can't _kill me_ ," Rodney says.

John lays Kayla down on the bed and she rolls onto her side, curling up with an arm under her head. Jeannie takes the folded blanket from the bottom of Rodney's bed and hands it to John.

"Oh, yes, very nice," Rodney gripes. "Steal the blanket from the critically ill patient."

"You're not critically ill," Jeannie says, rolling her eyes. "We'll get you another one if you're cold, okay?"

Rodney coughs, which at first sounds like he's being dramatic, but it lasts too long to be faked. John hurriedly finishes tucking the blanket around Kayla and goes back over to Rodney's bedside. Despite Rodney's penchant for exclaiming that he's dying of rampant infection when all he's got is a paper cut, he's been almost completely healthy the whole time John's known him, and seeing him like this -- pale and gasping for air -- is really fucking scary.

"We're never letting anything that witch makes into our house again," Rodney says when he catches his breath.

"Okay," John says. He'd promise Rodney anything right then. "Whatever you say."

"Are you humoring me?" Rodney asks, glaring at him suspiciously.

"No," John says. "I'm serious. Do you want me to put a hit out on her?"

"Yes," Rodney says. He gives a shuddering sigh and closes his eyes, then lifts the hand that's not attached to the IV and rests it on his chest. "I hate this," he says quietly.

There's something in his voice that makes John go very still, waiting, but Rodney doesn't say anything else, just closes his eyes again.

"They said he'll probably be in and out," John says to Jeannie.

She nods. "Yeah. He's usually pretty unpleasant afterwards, so it's just as well." She touches John's sleeve. "I'm going to go get some coffee. Do you want anything?"

"No. Thanks."

When she's gone and John's the only one awake in the room, he pulls the chair he was sitting in before over next to Rodney's bed and sits, shoulders slumped. Slowly, cautiously, he reaches out and puts his hand on Rodney's hip. There's some padding there, but John can still feel the solid curve of bone. It's one of his favorite spots on Rodney's body, reassuring and vulnerable at the same time, and everything hits John all at once like a punch to the gut.

He puts his head down on the mattress, his shoulders shaking.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

In the morning, Rodney's back to his normal self, snapping at the nurses and anxious to get the hell out of the hospital. That suits John just fine; he has enough bad associations with hospitals to last several lifetimes, and Kayla's apparent resilience doesn't do much to change that. She goes down to the cafeteria with Jeannie happily, intent on donuts, while John waits with an increasingly cranky Rodney for the paperwork that'll let them go home.

"This is ridiculous," Rodney says. They still haven't found his clothes and he's sitting on the edge of the bed with the sheet wrapped around his waist. "Do you realize how many millions of dollars this hospital generates in a year?"

"I never thought about it," John says honestly.

"No, well, you wouldn't." Rodney glances up as one of the nurses comes in with a bag holding his clothes. "Oh, thank _God_. It took you long enough."

The nurse sighs a long-suffering sigh and gives the bag to John, realizing that the sooner she can escape, the better. "Thanks," John says.

"Yes, thank you for doing your _job_ ," Rodney says, and the nurse leaves.

"I can see why you hate hospitals," John says. He takes the bag over to Rodney, who snatches it away.

"Oh really? Why is that?" Rodney is tearing the bag open and removing his shirt. "Would you mind shutting the door? I realize half the local population of the town saw me in various stages of undress yesterday, but that doesn't mean there has to be an encore performance today."

John also sees why it took so long for Rodney to get his clothes -- the nurses were probably arguing about who had to deliver them to the room. He goes over and shuts the door, letting his gaze linger on the sudden bare slope of Rodney's back for a few seconds before Rodney yanks his t-shirt over his head. "You need a hand?" he asks diffidently, and Rodney gives him a scathing look.

"No. Believe it or not, I'm still capable of getting dressed by myself."

Feeling more hurt than he should, John puts his hands into his pockets and looks at the floor as Rodney puts on his pants, and after a minute Rodney sighs and gestures at him.

"Come here," Rodney says.

John goes, not stopping until he's toe to toe with Rodney. "I'm sorry," John says, apologizing for the fiasco that was yesterday and hoping that Rodney gets it.

"We're not talking about that now," Rodney says, waving it away.

"We're not?" John asks.

Rodney shakes his head. "No. Which doesn't mean we won't _be_ talking about it, but we're definitely not doing it here."

"Okay," John says. He wants to touch Rodney, to reassure himself, but it's obvious from the way Rodney's sitting that he doesn't want to be touched. Not by John, at least. It's a depressing enough thought that John can barely paste a smile on his face before turning when he hears the door open.

Jeannie and Kayla come back into the room. "Rodney, I brought you a donut," Kayla says.

"You did?" Rodney sounds pleased.

"With chocolate frosting. And sprinkles." Kayla has it balanced carefully on a napkin.

"Thanks," Rodney says. He puts it on the little table-tray instead of eating it immediately, which is what he'd normally do. "They're supposed to be bringing something for me to sign, but they're so incompetent it could be hours before we see anyone again."

Of course, that's when a nurse comes back in -- just in time to hear Rodney's crack about the staff's lack of competence. Wearing a tightly-schooled expression, she shows Rodney where to sign, explains his discharge instructions, and leaves as quickly as possible.

"Come on," John says to the room in general. "Let's get Rodney home."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Under normal circumstances -- not that there's anything normal about taking your partner home after a night in the hospital, but there's a part of John that _does_ remember that as normal -- Rodney would be annoying as hell, complaining about all the work he's falling behind on and Mrs. Yager's killer oatmeal bars and the nurses' incompetence. Instead, he's quiet. He spends the first half of the day on the couch watching TV, and after lunch, which he barely picks at, he goes upstairs to the bedroom and shuts the door.

"Did you apologize, Daddy?" Kayla asks John.

"What?" John puts the last plate into the dishwasher and shuts it. "Oh. Yeah, I did." As best he could, anyway.

"Then why is Rodney still mad?"

"I don't know. I guess maybe I have to apologize some more." John looks at Kayla, who's obviously worried. "It's okay."

"Missy Singer's parents got divorced," Kayla says. "Last month. Her dad moved out." She sits down at the table. "She says they had a big fight."

"Rodney and I didn't have a big fight," John says. "And if we did, we'd fix it. No one's moving out." The thought hadn't even occurred to him until just now, and he wishes it still hadn't.

Kayla's eyes aren't any less worried. "Promise?"

"I promise," John says.

They spend the afternoon working on the bookcase they've been making for Kayla's bedroom. It's a project that's usually saved for weekends, but after the day they'd had yesterday John hadn't been able to bear the idea of sending Kayla to school, not even late, which it would have been by the time they got back from the hospital. John taught Kayla to use the woodburning kit, and he supervises as she carefully traces the pattern of vines and flowers -- and the occasional ladybug or dragonfly -- that they drew on with pencil. She's trustworthy with stuff like this, but he still watches her every second.

Dinner is pizza; Rodney sleeps through it and Kayla's bedtime, and it's not until she's in bed that John creeps into the bedroom to check on him.

Rodney's sleeping, his face relaxed. Carefully, John sits on the side of the bed and touches Rodney -- a hand along the curve of his shoulder, a gentle smoothing of his thinning hair. Rodney mutters and shifts, reaching for John without opening his eyes and pulling him down to kiss him, and John doesn't fight it because he _wants_ it too badly. The warm press of Rodney's lips to his...

When Rodney wakes up and remembers, he pulls away, looking sad.

John thinks his heart might break. "I'm sorry," he says, and his voice _does_ break. "Rodney, I'm really, really sorry."

"I know," Rodney says. He's not looking at John, though. "I suppose we have to talk about it. Make me some coffee, okay? I'll be down in a few minutes."

John's hands are shaking as he sets up the coffee maker, his heart tight in his chest. The distinct possibility that Rodney could break up with him over this, could _leave_ him, makes him feel sick and terrified, and by the time Rodney comes downstairs John's about ready to jump out of his skin. Or go down on his knees and beg Rodney to forgive him. Maybe both, if that's what it takes.

Rodney is wearing his bathrobe, and he looks better than he did earlier. Less tired, and he's not so pale.

"Whatever it is you want me to say -- or do," John says, "I'll say it. Or do it. Okay? Just tell me."

Sighing, Rodney sits down. "I don't know if it's that simple," he says.

John thinks he might throw up. That probably wouldn't benefit the conversation. "Okay. Just... talk to me. Tell me what's going through your head. Please." The coffee maker beeps and he quickly pours Rodney a cup of coffee, setting it down on the table in front of him. He sits next to Rodney, who still hasn't said anything. "Are you... tell me you aren't going to leave me."

The look Rodney gives him is so shocked that it's instantly reassuring. "What?! Oh, for God's sake, have you had a head injury today? Because I know you aren't usually this stupid."

"I just... I know what I said was unbelievably thoughtless." John also knows there's no excuse for it, but he has to remind himself not to try to offer one anyway. "And I don't think that."

"The thing is, I think maybe you do," Rodney says. "I know I'm no good at any of this -- telling you how I feel, or even showing you most of the time. But I thought you understood that even if I wasn't saying it, I felt it. Feel it. If you don't, I don't know what to do. I'm doing everything I can." He looks incredibly hurt, to the point where John has no idea what to say to make it better. "I was just as scared as you were when we didn't know where she was."

"I know," John says.

"I don't think you do," Rodney tells him. "Just because I was trying to focus on keeping _you_ from freaking out doesn't mean _I_ wasn't freaked out. Maybe she doesn't have my genes, but I love her, too."

"I _know_ ," John says, more gently but with emphasis. "I know you do, Rodney. Like you said, I was freaking out. Not that that's any excuse for what I did."

"I came into the picture late," Rodney says. He gets up, pulling his bathrobe more tightly around him, and paces over near the stove. "I'm painfully aware that I'm a parent by default only, but I need you to know that I take this seriously. All of it. Even if she's not actually related to me by blood. You think I don't lie awake in bed at night sometimes, imagining what it's going to be like when she starts liking boys? When she wants to get her driver's license? When, God forbid, she wants to go away to college?" More thoughtfully, he says, "Of course, she's very bright, and with my influence she'll probably be able to get into any school in the country..."

John tries to steer things back on track. "I know you love her," he says.

"Right," Rodney says. "Right. In any case... I did this. A while back. I didn't know how to tell you, so I put it off, but I think you need to know." John has no idea what he's talking about until Rodney takes a sheaf of crookedly folded, photocopied pages from his pocket and gives them to him.

Eyes skimming quickly over the text, John's brain takes a little longer to catch on. "This is your will," he says stupidly.

"Yes, very good," Rodney says, in the tone of voice that tells John he's an idiot.

John turns to another page. "I'm in here," he says.

"So is Kayla," Rodney says, sliding sideways into awkward. "Just the two of you. I -- it's not as if there's anyone else to leave it to, now that my mother is dead, and Jeannie and Kaleb have plenty. I asked, because I needed to talk to someone about it, and I knew you wouldn't -- "

"Yeah," John says, still staring at the pages in disbelief. "Not so big on that kind of talk."

"With good reason," Rodney says. "But -- big decision, and I... well, I asked Jeannie, and she thought... she thought it was a good idea."

Turning to the last page, John finds the date near Rodney's familiar signature. "Last year," he says. "You did this last year?" He manages to drag his gaze off the paper and up to Rodney's face.

"Yes, well, if you leave that sort of thing until later, you never get around to doing it at all," Rodney says, then falters again. "Should I... not have?"

" _No_ ," John says forcefully, leaving the papers on the table and standing up. "God, Rodney, this is incredible." He can't believe Rodney would do this... and that's part of the problem, isn't it. All this time and it's never really sunk in that _Rodney's_ in this for the long haul, too.

"It's the only thing I knew how to do," Rodney says, his voice soft. "You and Kayla..." He stops and makes an all encompassing gesture, his eyes suspiciously bright.

John walks over to him, right up close, and takes Rodney's face between his hands. "You're... you..." Words fail him and he kisses Rodney instead, slowly, giving himself time to straighten things out in his head. "I don't deserve you," he ends up saying. "And I'm... yesterday. It's not. It won't." It's a struggle, the words pushed out past the point in his throat that wants to keep them in. "Never again. I'll never do that to you again. I swear."

"Okay," Rodney says. John can tell by the way he's looking at him that he appreciates how hard this is. "I believe you."

"I hope you do," John says. He pulls Rodney in for a hug, and Rodney's arms go around him automatically. With Rodney's warmth pressed to him, Rodney's strong arms holding him, it feels like everything's going to be okay.

But John knows he needs to do more than assume that things will work out. He needs to make sure Rodney knows how much he means to him, and how grateful he is to have him.

"Come to bed with me," John says.

Rodney looks startled, but nods and lets John lead him upstairs.

In the bedroom, John feels almost overcome with emotion. His hands shake as he pushes the bathrobe from Rodney's shoulders and lets it drop onto the foot of the bed, and he kisses Rodney with both hands up under Rodney's t-shirt, reassuring himself with the broad expanse of Rodney's back and the warmth of his skin. He wants to crawl inside Rodney's shirt with him, but has to settle for the next best thing -- dropping to his knees and tugging down the front of Rodney's sweatpants.

John rubs his cheek against Rodney's thigh, his lips brushing Rodney's cock. Rodney gasps and rests a hand on John's head. The weight of it is solid, grounding, and John wants nothing more than to suck Rodney, to take him into his mouth and bring him off right here. But he can feel Rodney trembling, so he says, "Sit down. Here," and urges Rodney back, one step, two, until Rodney hits the mattress and sits.

Spreading Rodney's thighs wide, John strokes his thumbs up the inside of each one. The skin there is shockingly soft and tender. He leans in and licks it, then slides his lower lip across it until he reaches Rodney's balls, breathing warm air and smiling when Rodney's dick twitches. "Please," Rodney says hoarsely.

"Anything," John says, and licks a wide stripe up Rodney's shaft before taking the head of it between his lips and really going to work. He does everything he's learned Rodney likes -- sliding his tongue wetly around the ridge, concentrating most of his attention at the tip -- until Rodney's fingers, tangled in his hair, tighten. Rodney's hips jerk once, twice, and he comes in John's mouth, warm and salty.

"God," Rodney gasps. "God. That was..."

"Good," John says, looking up at him. He crawls up the bed and straddles Rodney's waist and leans in and kisses him. Rodney's mouth tastes like coffee, and it's so familiar and reassuring that John feels the back of his throat go thick, choking him.

"Hey." Rodney holds him up, meeting his gaze. "John."

"Jesus, Rodney, I'm so sorry," John says, and falls apart completely, trembling and doing his best to hold back sobs that seem determined to get out no matter how hard he tries.

Rodney pats his shoulder ineffectually and says stuff like, "Hey. It's all right," and, "John, it's -- it's okay," and then finally, "For God's sake, you do realize you're going to give me a complex about blow jobs if you keep this up, don't you?" and that's when John laughs through his tears. "Oh, good," Rodney says. "I was starting to think you'd broken yourself."

Shaking his head, John ignores the salt stinging his eyes and the taste of it in his mouth and kisses Rodney again. At first it's like Rodney's just letting him, but then Rodney groans a little bit and John feels Rodney's softened dick twitch where it's pressed against the back of his thigh.

"I need you to know," John tells him, kissing along Rodney's jaw, sandpaper against his lips, to his ear. "How important you are to me. To us."

"Yes, well," Rodney says. "I'm not likely to argue with you if this is your way of convincing me." John crawls off of him and strips off his own clothes, then lies beside him and works Rodney's dick with his hand slowly, until Rodney's gasping a little bit, trembling.

In his best porn-star voice, John asks, "How do you want me?"

"In me," Rodney says, and John stops everything because they've _never_ done that. Rodney's never even hinted that it's something he'd like to do.

He doesn't know what to say.

"Fine," Rodney huffs. "If the idea of it is that repulsive to you -- "

"It's not that," John says quickly, shifting himself up over Rodney and looking down at him. "I just -- never thought about it. I guess."

"You went from being straight to being with me, and the thought of fucking me never crossed your mind?" Rodney asks.

"Well, it's not like _you_ ever mentioned it," John points out, and that shuts Rodney up in the way that means it's something he doesn't want to talk about. "Have you done it before?"

"Of _course_ I have," Rodney snaps.

"And you liked it?" John's pretty sure he already knows the answer to that one.

"Not as such, no." Rodney won't meet his eyes. "But I know that people do. _You_ do, obviously."

"Obviously," John agrees. "If you don't like it, why would you want to -- "

"Because I never did it with anyone I loved, okay?" Rodney says peevishly, and John's heart skips a beat because hearing that Rodney loves him is always amazing. "Or who loved me. I thought... I don't know. That maybe it would be different." He sighs. "We don't have to. It was probably a stupid idea."

John kisses him. "You don't have stupid ideas," he says gently. He's touched and more than a little bit nervous; it's a hell of a lot of trust Rodney's putting in him, and he's not sure he deserves it. "How do you want to...?"

"Like this," Rodney says, rolling over onto his stomach, and John is shocked at how suddenly erotic the sight of Rodney's ass is like that -- rounded and perfect. He can't stop himself from reaching out to touch it, but Rodney tenses as soon as he does. "Sorry, sorry."

"I'm gonna end up hurting you if you don't relax," John says. It's the wrong thing to say, of course -- any threat of pain is enough to freak Rodney out -- so he spends the next twenty minutes massaging Rodney's shoulders and back until all the tension melts away and Rodney's like putty, warm and mellow. Actually, when John reaches over to get the lube without any reaction, he thinks maybe Rodney has fallen asleep.

But Rodney shifts and grumbles. "Are you stopping?"

"No," John says. "Just relax." He slicks two fingers and rubs one wetly across Rodney's opening, and Rodney moans softly and pushes back.

They've never even done this much before, so John is startled at how soft and hot Rodney is inside. It makes him feel all those things he was feeling before -- tender and grateful, like he wants to take care of Rodney -- so he's as careful as he's ever been, slowly easing his finger in and out just a little bit.

"Tell me if you want me to slow down," he whispers, even though he's already moving so slowly it's kind of ridiculous.

Rodney makes a sound between want and protest. "Don't," he says. "It's... it's good." John twists his wrist, remembering what Rodney does to him, and Rodney gives a little, muffled cry. "Oh God."

"There's a reason people like it," John says.

"I know," Rodney gasps, and moans again when John pulls back and adds another finger, so slowly. "It's... oh, please, I need..."

John soothes him by rubbing his other hand across Rodney's lower back, where the muscles are tight for a completely different reason now. "Shh. Easy."

"Please," Rodney begs. His hips shift, his thighs spreading wider like an invitation. "John, please. God, I can't..."

Hearing Rodney like that, almost incoherent, might be the hottest thing ever. It makes John's hands shake, and his dick, which has been hard all this time, is throbbing with need as he gets himself into position. And when he pushes in -- still slowly, and it's not just his hands that are shaking now, it's everything, he's shaking like a fucking _leaf_ \-- he keeps chanting in his head, _Don't let me hurt him, please God, don't let me hurt him._

If he'd thought Rodney felt incredible around his fingers, he was wrong, because _this_... this is incredible. It's pushing his aching cock into the softest, hottest, tightest place _ever_ , and it's _Rodney_. "Is this okay?" John asks, gasping, trembling, wondering if his arms are going to be able to keep holding him up. His hips push forward involuntarily and Rodney groans and shudders. "Fuck, Rodney, answer me." John's holding it together by the thinnest thread and he's terrified this is going to go wrong somehow.

"Okay," Rodney mutters. "Yes, yes, of course it's okay, just don't stop, don't -- " John has to stop, though, because otherwise he's going to come. He pulls back a little, thinking he can get control of himself, and ends up slipping free entirely, dick wet and cold. Rodney makes a frustrated sound and gets up onto his hands and knees, pressing his ass back against John's cock. "Come on, hurry up."

John laughs -- he can't help it, because this kind of impatience is so typically _Rodney_ \-- and guides himself in again. He sinks into Rodney, and they both moan and then inhale sharply at the same time, like they've rehearsed it, and it's so perfect that John can't move. Not that he needs to, because Rodney moves, rocking back and forth, fucking himself on John's cock, and all John can do is kneel there and watch. His dick sliding into Rodney, the arch of Rodney's back and the slow shift in the shape of his ass as he moves.

"I'm gonna come," John says, aware of it even though it still feels distant, far off.

"Not yet," Rodney gasps. He shudders. "Would you...?"

Somehow, John knows what he's asking, and he slides a hand along Rodney's hip and around to his dick, hard and slick at the head. As soon as his hand curls around it, Rodney comes. Rodney's usually quiet when he comes, but this time he groans loudly, his cock jerking in John's hand as his body tightens around John's, and it doesn't matter at all that Rodney has stopped moving because John is coming, too. The orgasm is pulled from him almost violently; he clings to Rodney, clutching at him, and can't say anything. Breathing's a little too important just then.

"Um, yeah," Rodney says finally. "Hello?"

"Sorry," John says, and pushes himself stiffly away from Rodney, wincing when his sensitive dick slides free. "Jeez."

"More like ow." Rodney shoves at him when he tries to lie down. "Move over. There's no way I'm sleeping in the wet spot."

John groans and stretches, his lower back protesting. "We're not sleeping like this at all," he points out, because they have to get dressed before they go to sleep. Rodney settles down anyway, and John lays a hand on the curve of Rodney's ass. "You okay?"

"Sore," Rodney says. "But yes. At least now I know what all the fuss is about."

"I'm glad you liked it," he says, grinning a little bit and sounding way more smug than he meant to.

"Oh, shut up," Rodney tells him. "It's not as if it was your idea in the first place."

That's fair enough. John runs his hand over Rodney's ass. "I liked it, too," he admits.

"I could tell." Rodney rolls onto his side and kisses John, his mouth warm and generous. "It's always good to add something to the repertoire. Wouldn't want to get bored."

The pronoun is left unspoken, but John hears it anyway. "I'll never get bored with you," he says truthfully.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

That night, he dreams that Rodney's dead. Laid out on a gurney, as white as the sheets, lips blue, completely still. It's a new version of a dream he's had plenty of times since Elizabeth died, but in this one people are pushing stacks of papers at him. When he looks at the papers, all he can see is Rodney's signature, again and again, dozens of times on each page. "But it's okay, see?" the people tell him, and there's no way John can convince them that it's _not_ okay, that the papers and the money they represent don't mean anything to him, that it's Rodney he needs.

He wakes up feeling numb and cold, the fingers of his right hand tingling because he's been sleeping on top of his arm. "Rodney?" he whispers.

"Mm?" Rodney shifts, turns his face toward John, still half-asleep. "T'is it? Bad dream?"

"Mm-hm." John wriggles in closer when Rodney drapes an arm over him, feeling safe. "C'n I sleep with you?"

Rodney snorts. "Sure," he says, and then destroys any hint of innocence by adding, "But only if you promise not to fuck me again for at least a week. I'll be lucky if I can sit tomorrow." He's trying to sound annoyed but failing completely; instead, he sounds happy.

It makes John smile, the last remaining threads of the dream fading away. He gets comfortable again. "I promise," he mutters against Rodney's neck, and Rodney pats his hair clumsily as he drifts back off to sleep.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

John has a hard time dragging his ass out of bed in the morning, and by the time he makes it downstairs Rodney and Kayla are halfway through breakfast.

"Take it easy with that," Rodney says as Kayla pours syrup over her waffles.

"I need sugar so I can concentrate at school," Kayla says.

Rodney shovels a huge bite of waffle into his mouth and rolls his eyes. "That's _protein_ ," he says.

"Sugar's important, too." Kayla always argues with Rodney even when it isn't something that matters to her. It's like she's practicing for when she's a teenager.

"Too much sugar will make you a diabetic." Which is pretty ironic considering Rodney's pouring more syrup over his own waffles.

"Hi, Dad," Kayla says to John, who's still leaning in the doorway.

He nods and yawns. "Morning."

"Were you guys up late fighting?" she asks.

Rodney looks at John and John shrugs. "No."

"But you made up, right?" Kayla sounds casual, but she's anxiously awaiting reassuring, John can tell.

"Yes, we made up," Rodney says, getting up. "Of course we did. Everything's fine."

Kayla turns to John. "Really?"

"Really." He goes over and sits, realizing that he should call and check in with Peter at work if he's going to stay home another day. Which he'll probably have to do if he wants Rodney to take it easy.

Rodney stops on the way past Kayla to pour her some more milk, and even though it's something John's seen him do a hundred times -- or maybe _because_ it's something he's seen him do a hundred times -- the realization hits him in a way it never has before: Rodney really is Kayla's dad, just as much as he is. She's referred to him that way before, often enough that it sounds natural, although she still calls him "Rodney" when it's just the three of them, and probably always will.

"You're quiet," Rodney says.

"Not awake yet," John says. It's an excuse, but not a lie. Because now he's thinking  
about Rodney's will, and how it's high time he re-writes his own, and wondering  
how complicated it will be to work things out so that Rodney can adopt Kayla,  
if that's what it takes. It might not be. He'll have to look into it.

John thinks about what Rodney's reaction will be when he brings up the subject,  
and he can't help but smile.

 

 

End.

Many thanks to Lallybroch and Maggie77 for the betas,  
and to Beadattitude for the consistent hand-holding, reassurance, and valuable advice.

  
[Leave feedback in WG's LJ](http://wesleysgirl.livejournal.com/731856.html?mode=reply).


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